Wild Thing (For Farrah)

I saw the Warhol of Farrah at The Blanton Museum. This is what the painting said to me:

I was a wild thing
A wild thing
Once.

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The Time I Dated Mel Gibson’s (Older, Not As Good Looking) Brother

Ok, so Mel Gibson’s Older And Not As Good Looking Brother was probably not actually Mel Gibson’s brother. There would have been name-dropping to go with the misogyny and antisemitism, for starters, and a much better accent.

It started like this. I was in line for a “B Scene” event at The Blanton Museum. Happens every first Friday of the month. I’m in a cute pink skirt with a black top and black ruffle pumps. This particular “B Scene” event was for a 1950s – 1960s art and design exhibit, like ‘Mad Men’ without the cigarettes. And regret. (I thought, at the time.)

This older gentlemen, older than I am anyway — I’ll be kind and say somewhere in the mid-50s started chatting me up about the exhibit, how someone of my youth could be familiar with Eames, et cetera. I should have known then. So this goes on while I’m in line and he’s in line. Eventually this somewhat professorial gentleman lets it be known that he’s a WRITER. And he’d like to meet me for coffee. Oh, and bring along a snippet of your favorite poem.

Is that like an artist saying to a girl: hey, baby, come and see my etchings?

So I’m a “nothing ventured, nothing gained” sort of girl. I’ll give it a go, you know? So I said sure. I accepted.

I’m an idiot.

I met him at this small cafe on West Lynne. I had my poem in my head. I had another one just in case this actually turned out to be an interesting evening.

Oh, it was interesting alright…

Inside of half an hour, he professed the following:

  1. Women belong in the kitchen, not in the workplace.
  2. Jews are responsible for all the wars in the world.
  3. He’s only a “writer” if you count writing hate mail messages to a science fiction author.

Oh my God, I said to myself: I am on a date with Mel Gibson’s older, poorer, not half as good looking brother.

I was half on, half off my chair, trying to slide out of it and right on out the door. It took me another fifteen minutes or so to get free. And this was after my phone “alarm” went off.

…Thank my conniving little brain that I always set an alarm on my phone to go off within the first thirty minutes of a date (or first hour if I really dug you), to give me an escape hatch…

Which I, of course, took.

And the poem I chose? A translation of Catullus:
“I don’t care to have dinner with you, Caesar. I don’t care to learn the very first thing about you.”

I should have played the lottery that night.

I Will Never Be David Sedaris (Or Amy Either)

I woke up this morning and realized: I will never be David Sedaris. I was heartbroken. It was like that time in the 80s when I realized I would never be Mary Lou Retton. (I had the height, but I lacked the springiness despite the scores of Wheaties.)

I think I like springyness better than springiness. Doesn’t the ‘y’ make it seem more… jumpy?

I know. I shouldn’t want to be David Sedaris. The world already has two famous Sedarii.

Sedaris. Sedarii. Of the 3rd i-declension.

But who wouldn’t want that voice? That voice that is New York (even though he didn’t grow up there), or what I think of when I think of the kind of New York I could afford. It wanders around you, a guy asking for your number, which you never give out. And then somehow he gets it. And you don’t want to get excited about it (numbers are easy to lose, especially by guys like him), but you do it anyway because down deep you really do want to keep hearing him go on and on like that. That kind of voice — one that knows cold and dark and what to do there.

My voice knows the soft and the quiet, the warm (sometimes too warm), the particular engine of a fly (house flies sound like Kawasaki Ninjas), the start and stop (because it’s just too damn hot) of a place that is bright and hot (too damn hot).

No, I will never be David Sedaris.

Voices, Vices, Vinci

Legs a-Pondering

Say What?

I’m still sort of figuring out this whole blog page thing. I’m a writer who doesn’t like to keep paper files or write in a journal.

I’m weird like that.

And navel-gazing isn’t all that interesting to me either — you’ve seen one, you’ve seen a million — which is why I think I’m going to kick this off, for reals, by talking about people who inspire me, people whose work I really, really enjoy. The ones who, in the words of Caesar, veni, vidi, vinci it for me. Oh, that’s Latin for: really does it for me. (Actually, it isn’t that at all, but I’m nicer than Caesar.) Continue reading